Big Brother
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is two and a half years old when his parents tell him that he is going to be a big brother. It does not happen, however, and in the end, it will take more than four years until a sibling of his is born./ Kid!fic, one-shot, exploring the very beginnings of the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock.


Welcome here to a one-shot that has been occupying my mind for quite a while.

I've always been deeply convinced that the famous line from 'A Study in Pink' - 'I worry about him - constantly' - was spoken in honesty, that there is more to this fraternal relationship than just teasing and mocking and it being 'difficult', that, in fact, both Holmes brothers care about each other, although they are determined not to show that. I have started thinking, of course... when a neat little idea popped into my head.

This one-shot is what happened.

I am aware of the simplicity of its title, found it, however, to be the most suitable one I could think of. However, I'll shut up now and let you read.

I don't own anything, not even the quote I used some lines above.

* * *

**Big Brother**

* * *

"You are going to be a big brother."

Mycroft Holmes was two and a half years old when his parents told him this for the first time. A bright child, already capable of expressing his basic needs and even a bit more, he nonetheless did not understand what that sentence meant. But Mummy seemed happy, and so Mycroft simply assumed that being a "big brother" was a good thing.

But he never came to experience that feeling because his to-be sibling was never born. When he was two years and eleven months, his mother lost her second child, another boy. The only things little Mycroft did notice were that his mother had suddenly become slimmer again, and that she was crying a lot. Mycroft himself did not cry - why should he? He hadn't even known what it would have been like to be a brother.

o

When he was told for the second time, he was four years old. Only shortly before, he had learned to walk, as his parents called it (well, not actually learned, because the concept of walking had even then been quite obvious to him, but decided to finally do it), and while his mother took him outside to the park, she kept talking about his sibling, brother or sister, who was to arrive within a few minutes.

Even back then, Mycroft had wondered about arriving - babies - since that was what his future sibling would certainly be at first - did not simply arrive, not by car, as did his Grandmother, nor by train. One day, he had decided, he would find out about that.

As his mother became slowly but gradually more round, she spent less and less time with Mycroft, his father explaining to him that it was because of his baby sibling.

Mycroft did not understand - how could a tiny baby which wasn't even here yet keep Mummy busy? And it didn't, as he found out later, when silently creeping into her room one afternoon. He found her in her bed, alone, doing nothing but sleeping. Busy, that was what his father had called it. Not in Mycroft's opinion.

Since his mother was not available and his father was often gone, due to his work, as he would find out some years later, Mycroft had to entertain himself, and he did, in fact - he learnt to read.

And as soon as he could read properly and understand the books his nanny had given him, he planned to sneak into his father's library one day and find out about babies arriving.

But as it turned out, he didn't have to - one day, after strange men had appeared in their mansion, his father informed him that he was not going to have a little sibling, just as the last time.

Mycroft did not care about that too much - nothing changed, in fact, for him. Mummy still didn't have more time - she now spent hours with crying again -, his father was still working the entire days, and Mycroft himself practiced his reading skills.

Why would he want to be a big brother? Everything was all right the way it was.

o

The third time it happened when he already was in prep school, five and a half years old now, and much more aware of what was going on around him.

Mummy and his father told him one evening, just after dinner, and he, as he knew he was expected to, smiled and declared he was happy. Both his parents seemed happy, too, laughing all the time and talking about baby names while Mycroft was trying to read a new book he had found in the library at school.

Mummy soon became rounder, again, and this time Mycroft did in fact do some research. It was not difficult for him to get his nanny and his teacher at school to talk, about what happened when a baby was to be expected. Albeit reluctantly, they answered him, and their information combined with some from a few books he had found told him everything he needed to know.

The baby was inside Mummy, growing there, right under her skin, until it was big enough to come out and live on its own. No matter how disgusting Mycroft found this, it had to be true - Mummy grew with the baby growing. He watched her tummy expand with fascination and something close to horror, and the most sickening thought for him was that he himself had been produced in the same way. Inside Mummy.

His parents stayed happy for a quite long time, never stopping to talk about names. Girls' names, boys' name. Mycroft hoped very dearly that his future sibling would not be given such an ordinary, rather dull name as 'Mary'. The Mary he knew from school was a shy little girl, not very clever. Not to imagine that his sibling should ever be like her.

When Mummy was thicker than he'd ever seen her, his father decided to lecture Mycroft one evening, calling him to the family's library.

"You will soon have a little sibling, brother or sister," he said. "You are to be the older one, and you are to take responsibilities. Your mother will need rest, for example, and it might happen that you are left in charge of your sibling. He or she will be very tiny, so you have to be very careful with the baby, do you understand? If you treat your sibling badly, you will hurt him or her, do you understand that? Be a good boy, and be a good brother."

Mycroft had nodded dutifully, but inside his mind he had tried to grasp the exact meaning of his father's words. Responsibilities? What did that mean? Being careful? Mycroft did not see why he should spend any time with the baby at all. Babies, as far as he was informed, did nothing, slept a lot, ate a lot. Was he to feed it? He could not believe that and found himself hoping for a sister - a sister who would occupy Mummy's time and who therefore would not need to much attention from Mycroft, except maybe during the occasional family photograph sessions.

Such a photograph was taken again when Mycroft was five years and ten months old, and his mother, as it seemed to him, appeared to be about to explode. And indeed, when he was taken home one afternoon by his father's chauffeur, his nanny told him that his mother was away, waiting for his sibling to arrive.

Stupid, Mycroft thought, didn't she know that babies were inside their mothers?

In the evening, his father came home and took Mycroft to a large building - hospital - where he was to meet his baby sibling for the first time.

"A boy," his father had beamed. "You have got a little brother, Mycroft."

Sherrinford, that was the tiny bundle's name, a blanket with some pink spot in it, cradled tightly to Mummy's chest. Bags under her eyes, her usually so impeccable hair in disarray, only wearing a dressing gown. Quite obviously his sibling was already exhausting. Not a girl, unfortunately, so Sherrinford, as Mycroft reminded himself to call the bundle, was likely to demand more attention from Mycroft than a girl might have. He suppressed a sigh and smiled instead, trying to look happy.

"Do you want to hold him?," Mummy asked, and carefully, but not exactly knowing what to do, Mycroft placed one of his hands under the blanket his sibling was covered in. He could feel warmth, but no shifting, no movement. Dull, he decided, but nonetheless feeling a strange tenseness in his throat. This time, he smiled for real.

Two days later, Mummy and the baby came home, Mummy laughing and beaming.

Four more days later, Sherrinford was gone again.

Gone to heaven, Mummy told him, tears in her eyes, her voice almost breaking.

Mycroft had frowned, not understanding what she wanted to tell him. People couldn't go to heaven, not even if they were as little as his sibling. It was simply not possible. But, seeing the obvious distress his mother was in, he did not press any further, but nodded and then carefully laid his arms around her neck, which only resulted in her sobbing even more.

Mummy and his father attempted very hard to keep up appearances, to act normally, but Mycroft, not daft at all and certainly not blind, was well aware that they were greatly disturbed by Sherrinford's leaving.

He, himself, could not say the same thing - he had been sad, of course, at first, when he had understood that his sibling was gone, but it assumed it was rather because of what his parents had always told him about his future sibling than because of the baby itself. And, as he had to admit to himself one night while lying in his bed, maybe he even missed the warm feeling that touching his brother had caused in him. Just maybe.

But then, life simply went on, and nobody mentioned Sherrinford in anything more than a hushed voice from then on.

o

Life went on, and Mycroft did no longer bother himself with thoughts of brothers and sisters and siblings. In fact, he rather enjoyed being an only child, having to share nothing, having no-one whimpering and crying like Sherrinford had been occasionally in his first days, just being able to read or play or do his homework in silence and in peace. Even his parents seemed content now, his mother spending each Thursday afternoon with him in the park again, insisting he should get some air, as she called it. Well then, as a good son, Mycroft did what she said and pretended to enjoy the time outside, while his mind was simply longing to go back to his comfortable, cosy room, go back to reading.

When his parents first mentioned babies again, Mycroft thought he had misunderstood. They had not, however, addressed the conversation directly to him, but had considered themselves alone. Mycroft had, by accident, overheard a part of what they were talking about - Mummy being pregnant, telling Mycroft, babies. Again. Mycroft stored the thought of another sibling away, deeming it as unimportant and not going to happen.

Then, however, he had noticed Mummy swelling again, slightly at first, but then even more, and he had known that a certain lecture by his parents had now become inevitable.

"You are going to be a big brother," his father informed him once again.

Big brother. Again. Duty. Tasks. Tasks he probably would not like, not at all. Boring. Anyway, what was he to do with a tiny baby that could not even talk? Cuddle it? Feed it? Hopefully not.

"Mummy's going to have a baby, Mycroft," his father had continued, and his mother had simply smiled, one hand protectively on her tummy, the exact place Mycroft knew his sibling to be.

"Are you looking forward to your sibling?," Mummy asked, and so, of course, Mycroft had to smile at her, to please her, and reply something suitable.

Only that nothing of that kind came to his mind, so he settled on a simple question: "When is the baby going to…" His first impulse had been to say 'be born', but then, remembering the shy and reluctant answers both his nanny and teacher had given him years ago, he realised that saying this, so frankly, might offend his parents. "When is it going to arrive?" he finally voiced.

Mummy beamed. "You will have to wait a while, Mycroft, darling. At least until February next year."

o

Mycroft did not have to wait until February. Exactly six days before his seventh birthday, the mansion was empty, except for a nanny, when he was taken home. And then, even before the nanny could utter a single word, he knew what had happened.

"Your mother is in hospital," the nanny told him. "Your little sibling…"

Mycroft decided to interrupt her before she could mention 'arrive' again. "Is my father already home?"

The nanny shook her head, and so Mycroft headed to his room, not trying to think about how sad Mummy would be if that child, too, went to heaven, as she had called it. If that child, too, died, as all the other ones before. Because, and that was a fact, Mycroft had no doubt that it would happen again.

He had clearly seen the signs during his mother's pregnancy - her anxiety, her being so very careful, never lifting anything heavy, never doing anything exhausting, not even forcing him to go outside with her any more. His parents not talking about baby names, never mentioning Sherrinford, nonetheless faking hope and optimism. Mycroft had also seen the way Mummy's stomach had been growing - similar to, as far as he remembered, the way it had been with the baby before Sherrinford. Not good signs, he knew.

And now it was only January, the beginning of January, instead of February as Mummy had told him. Not good at all.

There was nothing he could do before his father came home, so he resumed reading.

Once his father was home, in a rush and obviously very anxious, they had to leave, in almost the same rush, to get to the hospital where his mother was.

That night was the first one Mycroft spent waiting in a dim hospital corridor because of his brother.

His father kept walking to and fro, annoying Mycroft who attempted to concentrate. Although that waiting and simply sitting there, without anything to read or to do or to think about except for Mummy, was so very tiring, Mycroft found that he could not fall asleep, not here, not with his father walking around, not with waiting.

Because, then, somewhere in his body and in his mind, a small thought had made its home: What if he was indeed to have a little sibling? A little brother as Sherrinford could have been, but never had the chance to?

In the grey hours just before dawn in winter, a man came, clothed in white, doctor, obviously, Mummy's doctor, looking tired and exhausted himself, gazing at his father and walking further down the corridor with him, leaving Mycroft unable to understand anything that was spoken between them. It was about Mummy, of course, and about the baby.

A few minutes later, his father came back, the same worried expression on his face as the entire night. Not too good news then, Mycroft concluded. Well, but that had not exactly been a difficult guess.

"Are you hungry?" his father wanted to know, instead of any explanation.

Mycroft, deciding that eating was better than doing nothing, nodded, and so his father took him to the cafeteria and bought him breakfast. Mycroft chewed contently, eyeing his father closely and nonetheless not asking for Mummy or for his maybe sibling.

Once Mycroft had finished his meal, his father looked him straight in the eye. "Your mother is fine," he said. "The baby…"

Yes, Mycroft knew what was going to come. Dead. In heaven. Whatever. Just the same as all the others before. No second Holmes child. Neither boy nor girl.

But his father surprised him. "The baby is very tiny, Mycroft, and still very weak and frail. The doctor said that we will have to wait a while, until he gets stronger…"

His voice faded, and Mycroft knew what he did not say. If he gets stronger. If he survives. And, without even having seen his little brother, he hoped that he would.

o

Mycroft was taken back to the mansion a few hours later, neither being allowed to see Mummy nor the baby, but being told by the nanny to sleep.

Only he didn't - he waited for his father to come home and take him back to hospital in the evening.

Mummy's face was pale, she was in bed, with dark circles under her eyes - she did not look too well. Certainly worse than two years ago.

"Mycroft, darling," she mumbled when he entered the room, waved him close to her bed and hugged him, still lying down. "You've got a brother, did you hear that? A tiny brother. So tiny…"

Her eyes drifted off, apparently concentrating on the baby now. Then she sighed.

"You do look a bit peaky, darling," she remarked. "Are you all right?"

Mycroft simply smiled and nodded, allowing her to hold his hand. His father was standing besides the window, not looking at his wife and son.

"Your brother is sleeping now, dear," his mother said while stroking his hand. Something she hadn't done in years. Quite obviously afraid. Fearing for his brother's life, probably. Suddenly, he could feel a sting somewhere in his body, a sensation he had never had before.

"Can I see him?" he finally dared to ask, not sure if he wanted to see a tiny, helpless, weak and frail child. But then, on the other hand, he also did not want his little brother to die without having seen him at least once.

His father and a nurse accompanied him to where the babies were kept, those babies who were born too early. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, it read above the doors. And there, among a few others, was his brother, in a strange, glassy object - an incubator, as Mycroft would learn later in his life -, still, motionless, sleeping, as Mycroft presumed, not being pink, but rather white, with dark hair. And only then it was that he finally realised he had got a little brother.

o

His brother was not given a name at first, of course since it was not clear if the baby would survive at all. Mycroft realised his parents - their parents, now - did not want another Sherrinford, did not want to experience the same again. So, no name.

One evening, Mycroft secretly overheard his parents talking about names, his mother rambling, in fact, at home, in front of the fireplace, while his little brother was still in hospital. Genevieve was what his mother mentioned, but of course that one was ruled out immediately. A girl's name, not a name for Mycroft's little brother. Other suggestions were muffled, his parents talking too quietly, the next one Mycroft was able to catch being James. Luckily, no-one could see him, being disgusted by the idea of his baby brother being named James. James… How dull. He knew at least three different James's from school. Everybody was called James. Dull.

Then his mother's voice again: "… Sherlock…"

And from that moment, it was clear to Mycroft that his baby brother was to be named Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, his little brother.

When he finally went to bed that night, he still smiled at the thought of his baby brother. Of Sherlock.

o

Neither his mother nor his father who had resumed working as usual deemed it important to allow Mycroft to see his little brother many times. Mummy would spend hours at the hospital, mostly the mornings, when Mycroft was at school, and no matter how often he asked if he might accompany her once, she always smiled at him and then ignored his question, telling him to do his homework or to play.

Well, and so, Mycroft did as he was told.

In total, he met his brother four times before he day he was finally allowed to be taken home by their parents. Each time the little boy seemed a bit more alert, a bit stronger, Mummy holding him tightly, his tiny head against her chest. She never asked Mycroft if he wanted to hold his baby brother, not as she had done with Sherrinford.

Both his parents went to hospital in order to take Sherlock home, Mycroft already waiting for them, a book in his hands, in their dining-hall.

Mummy was holding his brother once more, his father opening the door for her. They entered the dining-hall the same way.

Giving up the pretence of reading, Mycroft jumped from his chair, rushing towards his mother.

"Sssh, darling," she said, pressing the baby even tighter to herself. "Quiet. Your brother is sleeping. Don't wake him."

His father stepped beside her, looking sternly at Mycroft. "This is your brother, son. Sherlock Alcott Nicholas Holmes. I expect you to behave as a brother as role model should do."

Mummy smiled at him again, but then quickly left the room, heading upstairs. To Sherlock's room, as Mycroft presumed. After a nod from his father he followed his mother.

She gently placed his baby brother in the cot, the same cot Mycroft had slept in, as his nanny had told him.

"Where's the nanny, Mycroft?" Mummy asked, seeming a bit distracted. Mycroft continued to stare at his baby brother, as did Mummy. Sherlock was sleeping, quietly, covered by the blanket Mummy had carried with him, peacefully.

"Mycroft?" his mother repeated, now turning to face him. "She shall have to watch your brother for a while."

Mycroft found himself watching his sleeping baby brother a bit longer until the nanny finally arrived and Mummy called him to dinner.

o

As nice and peaceful his brother had looked while sleeping, the days following his arrival at the mansion clearly were not.

Mycroft could not sleep in the nights, not even hiding beyond his pillow helped - Sherlock screamed and screamed and screamed. Without even pausing to draw breath, as it seemed.

The third day, Mycroft had seen Mummy storming out of Sherlock's room, only in her nighty, her hair in disarray, her face both worried and annoyed.

"God!" she yelled and rubbed her hand over her face. "Why can't he just shut up?" Obviously furious, almost fuming because of her anger, she smashed a hereditary statue from its traditional place, the porcelain figure breaking with a loud and sickening noise which caused Sherlock to cry even more. "Aaah!" Mummy shouted. "Anne! Anne, get the child to shut up! Feed him, rock him, do anything! Uh…"

Without noticing Mycroft standing silently in front of a closed door, she rushed down the stairs, ignoring Sherlock's screaming and crying.

Anne, the nanny, appeared shortly afterwards from where she had been doing the laundry, vanishing in Sherlock's room.

In the evening of the third day, the screaming stopped for two hours or three, just long enough for the Holmes family to have dinner, but as soon as Mycroft was sent to bed by the nanny, Sherlock resumed his most annoying habit again.

Mycroft found himself in his room, sleepless, frustrated because of his ever crying, ever noisy baby brother, so much louder than Sherrinford had been in the four days he had spent at home. It was too difficult to concentrate on reading, not possible to sleep… Why couldn't Sherlock be as quiet as Sherrinford had been?

As soon as he had produced the thought, he immediately revised it - Sherrinford had only lived four days, and of course Mycroft did not want the same to happen to his baby brother. Not if he was to fulfil the duty of being a good brother. And not if he ever wanted to have a younger sibling.

The restlessness and screaming in the house continued for more days, days in which Mycroft was looking forward to school for the first time in his life. It was quiet there, at least, albeit boring. But silent.

Various doctors came and went, Mummy losing her temper more often, in his company, in the nanny's, even in the company of two of the doctors. His father spent the evenings in his office, the mornings, maybe even the nights, everything in order to not having to endure this endless screaming!

None of the doctors could help, apparently, they all left Mummy with comforting words and told her that all children went through such a mood, a phase, as they put it. Mycroft could only shake his head when he overheard these comments. How stupid. This had to be more than a simple mood, clearly, even Mycroft, knowing next to nothing about babies, could tell.

He skipped school the next day, unnoticed by both his mother and the nanny, and spent the hours in the library, trying to find information on babies and on how to deal with them. Useless. Nothing helpful to be found.

The next night, he was lying in his bed, sleepless again, when he heard someone rush down the stairs. Not Mummy, the steps were far too juvenile and light. Not his father, either, even more unlikely. So, the nanny. She had left, and Sherlock was there on his own, crying.

It was that very moment that Mycroft realised that someone had to help his baby brother, had to stay with him at least, and since all the others were gone, had left, had fled, only he himself remained.

So he rose himself from bed, slipped his shoes on and headed for his baby brother's room, four doors from his own. The screaming filled the corridor, Sherlock's screaming and crying.

Mycroft was fairly sure that he had never cried that much in his entire life, and Sherlock had only been at home for about one week. Fascinating. Truly fascinating.

His baby brother was lying in his cot, wailing, shifting, his eyes shut tightly.

"Ssshh," Mycroft said, in a supposedly comforting voice, and felt foolish the same instant. As if that was to calm his brother.

So he just sat there, in the darkness, until Sherlock's crying finally subsided, the baby having fallen into an exhausted sleep. In the dim light of the lamp on the only table in the room, his baby brother suddenly looked so tired, so frail that Mycroft simply could not restrain himself from touching his brother's dark hair, feeling so very soft to his touch.

There was a warmth inside him, something he had never experienced before, a nagging feeling, a comforting feeling, a pleasant feeling that told him to pick his little brother up, hold him tightly and never let go again, not until Sherlock was grown.

He hesitated only a short moment, then slowly stretched his arms into the cot, carefully, more carefully than he had ever done anything else before, lifting his brother's tiny head and body, placing him half on his lap, half in his arms.

Sherlock's eyes opened when Mycroft removed one of his hands from his brother's body, and Mycroft froze.

Stupid. Stupid idea to pick up a sleeping baby. Now the screaming and crying and wailing was going to start all over again, and everybody, including himself, would be angry at him.

But then Sherlock's eyes closed again, on their own account, and Mycroft could feel a certain tenseness he hadn't known to have been there before leave his brother.

Miraculously, his baby brother had gone to sleep again, in his arms.

When Anne, the nanny, came back a few hours later to feed the baby, she found both Holmes brothers in the armchair, the older one holding his little brother carefully, but safely, and the baby being soundly asleep.

And from the night on Mycroft had spent with clutching his little brother, his _little brother_, peacefully asleep, he had known that his life from now on would be nothing like it had used to be. But he had also known, with absolute certainty, that he, the big brother, the older one, would never let his brother down, not a long as he lived, and that he would protect Sherlock from any harm that might come to him. Because then, in that night, Mycroft Holmes had finally understood what it meant to be a big brother.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

My first dive, as you could call it, back into the past, back into the Holmes brother's childhood. Any thoughts you'd care to share?


End file.
